I suspect Adele fell for someone.

I live in Adele’s studio. As a cherry red lipstick, I would be best suited for Adele’s face, and yet Adele decided to carve a mini sculpture out of me.

On a sunny Sunday, clustered by a sea of carving tools buried in dried lipstick crumbs, I wake up as the morning glow creeps through the window. Piles of Percy Jackson books lay on the workbench, with The Titan’s Curse nearest to me, the page opened to the paragraphs depicting the first appearance of the goddess Athena, the goddess of wisdom and craftsmanship. While sitting on the chaotic table and waiting for Adele to sculpt the shape of my hands, I notice Adele's absent-mindedness.

Hey! You are going to ruin Athena’s hands! Don’t let that rough tip gouge into my delicate skin anymore.

I sigh in discontent though she cannot hear me. Well, things would get more complicated if she did hear a lipstick speak. I have no interest in being taken to a human laboratory as an alien creature to be sliced and studied by a bunch of weird and crazy scientists, even though I do trust Adele won’t report me since she is dedicating her time to considering her relationship problem.

The exacto-knife in Adele’s hand pauses in mid-air. Her gaze shifts to the window and she loses focus. She suddenly blushes, and before realizing, a shy smile shows up on her lips. A text message breaks the studio’s glass-like silence, jerking Adele out of her reverie. She hurries to check her Instagram notifications. Her head turns sideways facing the window. Sunlight shines on her bright eyes. Her phone reflects the light, covering her screen, hiding this girlish secret love story from others. I’m a little sad that I don’t get to see the first-hand news, but I know she is checking the likes and comments of her post. Her newest post is a rough prototype of me, which is one of the tens of mini sculptures she shared.

However, I think proudly, that I am the only statue carved from lipstick. And I will be her first human-shaped sculpture, a figure of her favorite goddess, Athena.

I am immersed in the fact that I am unique and superior to the other mini sculptures carved from rice grains and colored pencil heads, I see Adele’s eyelids droop, cloaking the bright sunlight in her eyes as if dark clouds formed over her head and it was going to rain. Then she pats her cheeks and murmurs, “He must haven’t seen it yet.”

Adele usually exists in her own world and insists on sharing her work, free from concern over likes and comments.

Why does she change her mind so abruptly?

Ding–

Ugh, Adele’s phone again, I mutter, knowing her special message has come.

Her phone used to stay in “Do Not Disturb” mode while working, now messages are like buzzing mosquitoes. Adele bolts upright, hastily organizes the tools, and rushes out the door. The sun glares. Dizzy and nauseous, I melt in its heat. I realize she forgot to put me in the shade. She ignores me.

In the following days, I watched as she spent less and less time in the studio. Yesterday Adele barely picked up the knife before the phone rang, without even letting its tip touch me. This is when I found that I am no longer her central focus; sculpting is no longer her top interest. The boy steals her time and attention. I'd prefer to risk disfigurement and let that careless tip gouge into me rather than Adele not holding up the knife at all.

The dust has fallen on the lid that she put over me. Posters of actresses wearing heavy makeup decorate the studio. The makeup tutorial seems to be repeated millions of times, with a woman saying in an exaggerated tone, “…my most requested lipstick number! Brown works with everyone…”

The Percy Jackson books are closed and pushed to the corner of the workbench. Through the dust-blurred cloche, I see Adele putting on crazy makeup which makes her look malnourished: Adele has single eyelids and insists on wearing eyelid patches to hold them up; her thick eyeliner draws on like a panda; she bought a new brown lipstick only drawing makeup. If I could move, I would thump the table and yell at her What the heck is brown lipstick? It looked like you got poisoned and were about to die! This does not suit her.

The studio door is locked again. Another quiet night. Sleep is completely wiped away from my nerves tonight by anxiety and frustration. I try to recall my interactions with Adele to put myself to sleep like I did in previous days.

Previous days…when was the last time Adele carved me?

Surprised and dismayed, I find I have not seen Adele for more than a week. To stop me from further sorrow, I divert my attention to the most recent moments shared by us in my memory.

Adele played audiobooks on YouTube. She continued book eleven of The Odyssey. While listening to the heroic journey of Odysseus, she wiped the blade with a wet paper towel, as if she was the real hero who was pulling the sword out of the scabbard, ready for a battle. Before turning left and throwing the paper towel into the trash bin, she also wiped my clean and transparent glass cloche.

Oh, now the dust has accumulated on my cloche. I can’t even examine the room with a clear view. Remembering the sad fact, I shake my head and skip this part.

Then she cleaned the dried lipstick crumbs on the working bench and held the blade. She started carving. Her bright amber eyes focused on me. Her left hand held my lipstick base firmly and her right hand held the knife hard. She was wearing a sky-blue sweater, maybe she disliked the sleeves being in her way. She rolled them up so I could see the muscles on her arms tensed, her blue veins bulging out a little.

Adele has the most beautiful hands in the world. An artist’s hands, slender but potent. I was mesmerized by her hands, chuckling inwardly, and I couldn't help but exclaim: these beautiful hands give me all their spare time, which proves how important I am to her.

I closed my eyes, only feeling the cold tip moving on my body. Careful enough, Adele managed the knife well, avoiding the possibility of hurting me. The warm sunlight, the delightful story, and the sufficiency of being accompanied by my friend created a cozy atmosphere. I was drowsy.

“Huff. All done.”

I was startled by Adele’s exhale. She looked at me seriously, turning me around and inspecting details as if I were a naughty kid who got into trouble. My heart rises to my throat. Did she disfigure me?

Her expression quickly switches to excitement. Adele’s fists clench. She suddenly stands up from her chair with a snap, waving her fists in the sky, and bursts into cheering “Yay! I knew I could do it! The perfect face for my supreme goddess!”

Adele’s cheek flushed with excitement. She meticulously lifts me to face the window, admiring me under the natural light.

“Oh, such a masterwork.”

She puts her left hand on her chest exaggeratedly, with her right hand still lifting me. Adele comes closer to me, purses her cherry lips, and pretends to kiss me, “I love you so much baby, you are ravishing!”

She beams. Her smile makes me flush. This memory always warms me. Every time I recall it, my heart feels as sweet as soaking in a honey pot.

And that is enough for tonight’s bedtime story. Adele definitely will come tomorrow. She must be tired of her new brown lipstick. With this belief, I fall asleep.

The next morning, I wake up and stare at the handle in the hope of a sign that someone is turning it. I find it untouched like yesterday. Like the day before yesterday. Like every morning since the brown lipstick arrived. My thoughts wander. I think aimlessly and pray to the goddess.

Please, Athena, the goddess of wisdom. Just let me have something to think to spend the time and make me temporarily forget the pain of being ignored.

Why is Adele so important to me? I begin to ponder. This all began when Adele started to carve me. The first sentence I heard in my lipstick life was from Adele’s mom.

“Honey, are you sure you are going to carve this lipstick? It fits your skin well.”

“M-O-M-!”

Then my visions become clear. I see a huge face in front of me with amber eyes bright and determined. The face moved back, holding a carving knife, with a tiny piece of lipstick crumb stuck onto it. Frightened after realizing that she had taken away part of my body. I wanted to scream, but soon noticed I was not capable. I could only think chaotically.

Later on, with more crumbs falling bit by bit, the excess parts of my body were dug away, shaping me closer to a human form. My consciousness became clearer and clearer. And I was confused. Where is here? Who am I?

These questions did not linger long in my mind. In the near future, I would learn this girl was Adele. A beautiful name that matches her amber eyes. She lived in another room which I had never been to, but she sculpted here almost all her free time.

However, there were the lonely nights I needed to entertain myself. I thus learned to sleep in the night as humans and observe the studio when I was bored.

Adele set me on the working bench, right next to the window. Two additional owl desk lamps hung up on the window side, put onto the left and right corners of the room. Facing the window, on my left side was the door which I checked every morning with anticipation. Opposite the door was a huge fresco drawn by Adele, a cartoon version of the thirteen main Olympian gods. The wall caught in the middle between the painting and the door had exhibit pillars. Adele’s past sculptures were all collected here, each having a transparent glass cloche over it to prevent dust. She cleaned them every week.

This was my world. I tried to connect my brain waves to the other animal sculptures, but none of them replied. Adele was the only creature who could interact with me. Although I couldn’t chat with Adele, I could still hear her voice and watch her moving around in the studio. And she gave me life. In a sense, Adele was my not-related-to-blood mother.

My thoughts drift back to the present. I once again remember that no one here can communicate with me. The deathly silence drives me crazy with boredom. I no longer hold an interest in belittling the other crafts around me for amusement. If I could, I would study how to carve myself instead of pining for a sudden change in her indifferent heart. But I am just a lipstick with thoughts, a bystander who can only witness but change nothing.

BANG!

Adele slams the door. Instead of cheering her presence, I sense her sorrow. Leaning against the door, she stands with her arms hanging down weakly. Her brown lips are pallid and tremble uncontrollably. Her body is sliding and curling until she squats on the floor, arms wrapped around her legs. Her tears are streaming down from her beautiful eyes.

I feel anxious to help, even though comforting her is impossible for me. Her sobs grip my heart like an invisible hand, squeezing it with each cry. I whisper, though useless, It’s not the end of the world.

“May I come in dear?”

I recognize the gentle voice of Adele’s mom.

With tear-blurred eyes, Adele opens the door, wailing to fall into Mom’s arms, “He said this lipstick shade doesn’t suit me, but it’s what everyone wears…”

Mom strokes her hair in silence. Only after Adele stops her tears does she speak softly, “Popular doesn’t always equal suitable. Dance to your own tune.”

         Adele does not respond.

         The next day, Adele locks away her posters and the brown lipstick. She picks up her knife, and I win all her attention again.

The blade moves with precision. Adele's hand is as steady as ever. Days later, she gazes at me and places a tiny diamond on top of my crown, which finalized the lipstick goddess masterpiece. Adele smiles contentedly. She shoots a photo and shares it on her Instagram account with her lipstick story.

Adele's post went viral overnight. People from all over the world liked, commented, and resonated with this experience.   

Encased in that glass cloche, I stand on the tallest exhibited pillar in the studio and placed in the middle of her works. A sliver of sunlight bathes me, casting a long shadow across the floor - Athena smiles.

– The End –